CHAPTER NINETY-NINE
The Searat King's arrival on Talaga mirrored that of his Queen's earlier that season, the Darktide pulling into the harbor and tying up to the dock while an honor guard of crew from the Darksky and the Deeprunner stood in neat ranks upon the planks to officially welcome their lord to this idyllic haven within his harsh realm. And if the Darktide was not accompanied by a companion warship as Regelline's had been, Tratton hardly seemed nonplussed at having a pair of fleetrunners as his only escort.
The bay was calm and gentle, just as it almost always was within this sheltered cove, and the sky clear and blue, decorated by just the faintest wispy shreds of cottony white. Arriving on a more traditional vessel than when Regelline had made her earlier homecoming aboard the Deeprunner allowed Tratton to stand abovedecks as the Darktide sailed into view of the agricultural isle and hove into the bay, enjoying the splendid views of sparkling white sands and the terraced waterfront settlement of Talaga Village, and sparing himself the awkward indignity of scaling a steel ladder up into the sun in order to disembark in front of his welcomers and retinue. Perhaps a dreadnought would have been even more befitting, but the modest harbor here could never accommodate any craft so large, and even this far out from the mainland - and even with the Accord in place - Tratton didn't entirely trust Urthblood not to target the remaining master ships of the Fleet.
The Darktide nosed up directly behind the Darksky, whose own crew crowded the railings in full dress regalia, standing stiffly at attention under the hot sun with paws to brows in salute. Across the pier, the Deeprunner cut a much lower and more compact profile, her relatively tiny topdeck deserted. Captains Voccola and Kirkirt joined their honor guard on the dock, each stationed at the end of their respective gangplanks with a few of their senior officers. Even more uniformed rats waited ceremonially at the landward end of the wharf, where no doubt the Governor and his wife and their coterie of attendant lackeys hovered to greet the Searat King once he set foot on the dry white sands of Talaga.
"Seems they are sparing no indignity in dignity," Tratton mused to Talarek, the ranking lieutenant of the Terramort Guard whom Malvarkis had personally assigned to stand in for him on this voyage as their liege's chief bodyguard. "And I notice one dignitary calls attention to herself through her absence. So much for royal devotion."
"With all due respect, Majesty, an' giving the Queen the benfit of th' doubt, she is with child, and perhaps not feeling up to turning out for such a welcoming."
"Well played, Talarek - obsequious to me and properly deferential to the Queen at the same time. Malvarkis has trained you well. But my dear regal better half should be well past her days of morning sickness by now, and not yet so heavy in the belly that she'd have trouble getting anywhere she truly wanted to be. I'm astute enough to recognize a snub for what it is - and honestly, I expected nothing less from her. If she started to act courteously toward me, I might truly start to worry."
In truth, Tratton's flippant attitude did hide a modicum of concern, if only a small one. So much rode on the successful delivery of the royal heir, and he doubted not for a moment that, should Regelline take a turn for the worse or suffer drastic complications at any point in her pregnancy, that news might very easily not reach him in a timely manner.
Those who delivered evil tidings to the Searat King often did not live to regret it.
Tratton drew in a deep breath redolent of the warm and fertile isle, then blew it out again through relaxed teeth. "Let us go dispense with this ceremonial claptrap and get it over with, so that we can focus on what I came here for."
"Yes, Yer Highness."
The rat King led the way down the Darktide's gangplank to be greeted by sharp salutes from Kirkirt and Voccola; Tratton returned the gesture perfunctorily and without a word exchanged between them - most likely a relief to all parties involved, since any verbal interaction with the sea lord at all risked examination, incrimination or condemnation for any misstep or shortcoming, real or perceived. The two ships' captains were perfectly happy to draw only a nod of acknowledgment from their master, for in this case no news was surely good news, and if Tratton had nothing to say to them, then they could assume he'd found no fault to voice. For his own part, Tratton neither preferred nor expected any verbal engagement; any words they'd felt forced to produce for the occasion would surely have consisted of empty praise, platitudes and banal formalities, and this spared him from having to play nice or cut them down with sarcasm.
Besides, as mere nautical captains on the scene, it was not their place to formally welcome him to Talaga, being visitors themselves. That fell to governor Martinoy and his wife Centrella, who would no doubt momentarily shower him with empty banality enough to make up for the silent captains and sailors Tratton now passed on his way along the dock.
Sure enough, he was greeted with a bow and a curtsey, just as Regelline had earlier that season. "Welcome, Excellency Most High!" Martinoy gushed as he straightened from his perpendicular genuflection. "We honorably receive you with the full hospitality of Talaga. My island, and everything and everybeast on it, is at your complete disposal. Name your want, and every request will be fulfilled, every command obeyed!"
"Yes, nice." Clearly Tratton expected nothing less, and viewed the need to state such obvious facts as frivolous overkill. Nevertheless, he held any number of tempting, acerbic rejoinders back on his tongue, playing along for the sake of protocol. "Thank you, Governor. The Queen tells me you have been most accommodating to her needs, so I will expect the same in kind." Then, unable to resist, he added, "I will not even cast you out of your own home, since Her Majesty has already done so. Tell me, which of those manses up on the ridge overlooking the bay is - or, should I say, was - yours?"
"Um, the pink one, Sire - just left of the lookout tower."
"Oh, marvelous. The Queen must love that color." Shifting his attention to the burly swordsrat standing alongside the Governor, Tratton said, "And speaking of the Queen, I see her guard is here, even if she is not. Hullo, Trushar."
The bodyguard nodded formally. "Majesty."
"Surprised I am to find you not at your Mistress's side. I might almost suspect you of dereliction of duty, were it not for the fact that you'd not be here unless she ordered it herself."
"She did, Majesty. She preferred not to exert herself by coming all th' way down here, but did not wish to slight you either, and felt my standing as her head guard made me worthy to represent her in her absence. Her pawmaid Harmata remains at her side to see to her needs, and that one knows how to handle a blade fairly well herself."
"Nearly as well as Regelline, I understand. I suppose the Queen will be safe enough, then."
"Indeed she will, Sire!" Martinoy quickly put in. "She has her own palace guards from Terramort as well, and I've assigned some of my house guards and servants to remain with her too. No rat in the Empire is better tended than she!"
"That is good to hear, Governor. And for the short duration I expect to be here among you, I anticipate being treated equally well, since I will be sharing the Queen's accommodations, if not her actual chambers. So tell me, does all go well with her health?"
"Oh, yes!" Martinoy practically fell over himself to affirm. "Our very best midwife Demetria has been assigned to her and her exclusively, until the babe arrives and for as long thereafter as the Queen deigns to retain her services. I am assured - and can hence assure YOU, Your Highness - there've been no complications, an' her term proceeds according to the best we could hope for."
"Then let us be inside, where I can see to my own comforts." As the reception party joined Tratton and Talarek in leaving the dock and trudging up to the stone-paved concourse, the rat sovereign reflected on the risk he took in entering Talaga Village with just one of his Palace Guard. Martinoy was not the sort to seek the throne for himself, but that didn't mean he might not see this island as his own personal fiefdom, instilling in his personal guard a greater sense of loyalty to him than to the Empire - or to his King. To the north of the main residential district, along the shore there with a separate harbor and pier of its own, stood Fort Ballaster, its towers just visible above the hills from here, and that stronghold was staffed by fighters Uroza made sure remained steadfast in their devotion to Tratton. But Martinoy, as a perk of his governorship, kept his own guards, and while Uroza's spies undoubtedly kept tabs on them as well, there could never be any guarantees where such fulcrums of power were concerned.
And, compared to the risks he was about to undertake, mingling with one of his own governors rated very low on the threat scale.
The deck planks ended in the gentle dunes above the high tide line, leaving a wide stretch of the fine white sand to cross before reaching the paverstones of the lower avenue bending around the flanks of the sheltered harbor like a crescent thoroughfare. Tratton gave a minor scowl as his footpaws sank into the yielding strata with each step. "You really should have the planking extended up to street level, Governor. Or else pave a stone path down to the head of the dock."
"But, Sire," Martinoy explained, "Talaga is known for its recreation as much as for the crops we yield for the Empire, and the high standards of living we provide for officers and their families. Our beaches here are especially renowned for their pristine beauty, and most residents and visitors relish the opportunity to stroll through them with unshod paws, savoring the sand between their toes or wading in the shallows ... "
Tratton shot the Governor a sharp glance. "Do I look like I'm here to enjoy the sand between my toes?"
"Uh, no, um ... "
"I prefer hard surfaces underpaw," Tratton went on. "The chambers and passages of Terramort, or the solid decks of a sailing ship. Shifting foundations can be as treacherous as shifting loyalties, and I'd just as soon avoid both."
"Meanin' no disrespect, Highness, but most rats might beg t' differ. They'd say hard floors and decks and ground are all well and good for drilling and duty, but when they're on their own time - when they're collecting their due reward for dedicated service to you and the Empire - well, then they're of a mind to put their cares and troubles aside, and be pampered a bit with some easy living. That's what Talaga's all about, Sire - and if it's your desire to enjoy for yourself a little of the rest and relaxation that's our specialty, any pleasure we can provide is yours for the asking."
"I know well what Talaga is here for, Governor. I'm the one who set it up as a resort and officers' families haven in the first place, remember?"
"Ah, er, that's true, Majesty. But we see you here so seldom, refreshing your memory in light of all that must be on your busy mind is only proper royal courtesy, wouldn't you agree?"
"Well said, Governor. But as you know, my 'busy mind' is elsewise occupied by other matters on this visit, and any recreation I enjoy here will have to wait until my official business is concluded."
Martinoy grimaced, and Centrella seemed equally put off by this focus on strategies and unsavory negotiations. "Yes, Spymaster Uroza's representatives have been quite busy here this season, making their ... overtures. A few have, unfortunately, lost their lives in the course of these, ah, talks."
"I am well aware, Governor."
"Savages!" Centrella spat, not caring if her outburst rankled either her husband or Tratton himself. "Feathered barbarians! They can have the western wastes of Talaga all to themselves, just as they always have. To slay Your Highness's agents so thoughtlessly ... "
"Forgive my wife if she speaks out of turn, Sire," Martinoy mildly implored, "but her points are valid. You have never had to share an island with such creatures, and at times it can be unbearable. We thin their ranks when we must, but they don't even make that good eating. Of course we've stopped that in light of the current diplomacy, but I fear it's only made them bolder and more unruly. You're, um, not planning on meeting with them directly, are you, Sire?"
"There wouldn't have been much point to me voyaging all the way here if I wasn't, Governor."
Martinoy seemed ready to voice his own misgivings over the obvious folly of such a course, but moderated his tone at the last moment. "But, do you really imagine them to be any creatures who'd make reliable allies, or who'd parley in good faith? What could we even offer them to win them over to our side?"
"What did Urthblood offer his gulls?"
Tratton well knew the answer to this rhetorical question, having long ago deduced it himself and also having received confirmation from Ambassador Erzath - one of the few bits of solid intelligence his representative at Salamandastron had been able to supply - and if Martinoy knew it too, Tratton had ready assurances prepared to ease the Governor's qualms. There was a good chance, however, that Martinoy remained ignorant on this score, because the answer was too terrible for any member of their species to seriously contemplate or dwell upon for very long.
Quite simply, the Badger Lord had brought the seagulls into his fold by promising two things: To stop slaying gulls himself ... and the chance to kill as many searats as they wished. And Tratton fully intended to promise the exact same thing to his hoped-for allies from the craggy, surf-pounded, storm-scoured shores of western Talaga.
He just hoped, should they accept, that they proved not particularly adept at telling searats from woodlander rats - because these days Tratton had plenty of the latter to spare, thanks to the Accord.
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Palter felt like he had stepped into a nightmare that was growing worse with each passing moment.
The worst - or so he'd thought - had been the grinning badger. That demonic grin had haunted his terror-fainted slumbers until his reawakening, and even afterwards, and immense relief flooded through Palter when his red-armored captor failed to make any further appearances between then and the rat's removal from Salamandastron under armed escort. As much as Palter dreaded what lay in store for him aboard the Redfoam, at least it would get him away from Urthblood.
When the weasels came to conduct him from his interrogation cell, they didn't even bother binding his paws. And why would they? He was the scrawniest, feeblest rat they'd ever seen, or at least that they'd seen so far that season - although Palter caught himself at this thought, for they'd surely seen Lattie too, and as unimposing as he might be, Lattie was even moreso, or just about. In any case, no true soldierbeast would look upon Palter and see any kind of threat at all ... and thus was he marched down through the mountain passages, out under the wide coastal sky into the fresh onshore breezes, along the stone jetty wharf and right up to the boarding gangplank of the Redfoam entirely unrestrained.
The searats aboard the docked galleon regarded Palter with derogatory snerks, snide asides and snouts wrinkled in distaste that such a pathetic specimen had delayed their departure while they awaited his delivery into their custody. But tempted as some might have been to slay him on sight or use him for immediate target practice, Captain Trangle's orders were clear, and so Palter was passed from Urthblood's weasels to the searat crew, a contingent of whom prodded him up the gangway, onto the top deck and then down the companionway to the lower level which was to be his new home - and perhaps the last he would ever know.
Had Palter not been so fearfully despondent and anxious as to his fate - and Lattie's too - he might actually have been able to enjoy the novelty of his first-ever experience aboard an oceangoing vessel. The wide decks a world of their own, riddled with hatchways and stairs and cabins and compartments, and above it all the mighty main masts and rippling, resplendent tricolor sails and the intricate network of ropes connecting canvas to jibs and booms and pulleys and winches - it all spoke of an existence wholly foreign to the woodland rat.
But then that surface rat-wrought wonderland disappeared behind him as he was bustled down one set of stairs and then another, into the belly of the wooden beast and the bowels of the searat warship. With each step he felt himself further and further removed from the fresh air and sunshine of the outside world, felt his old life of freedom receding behind him as these imprisoning bulkheads closed around him with an almost suffocating sense of confinement ... and as he smelled the strengthening stench of chained misery. By the time he reached the short flight of steps leading down to the rowing galley floor, he almost thought he might pass out from the repugnant odor of fresh filth and unwashed bodies mingled with the stale essence of past woodlander slaves now departed. And Palter had never been the cleanliest of beasts himself, so for it to affront him so ...
He was pushed and prodded along the central aisle, forlorn faces to either side of him gazing up with hapless dejection and smoldering resentment and watery-eyed fear from their seats on the rowing benches, the long oar handles laying across their laps like stern arms of discipline. In addition to hale and hearty adult rats Palter also saw frail oldsters and youngrats too, some barely able to see over their oar handles. All the recent arrivals sat tied to their stations by heavy knotted ropes, which rather surprised Palter; he'd always heard of rowing slaves being chained to their oars by irons, but only a small portion of those here were, and those all toward the fore of the galley. But these softer, more yielding restraints did nothing to cheer the captives bound by them, their every expression one of anxiety or anger or confusion. Every expression save one ...
A wide, wildly inappropriate smile broke out on Latura's face as she spotted Palter coming down the aisle toward her. She tried to raise her paw to wave, found the rope afforded her no slack to do so, and so settled for cheerily calling out, "Hey, uh ... you!"
The ghost of a smile played upon Palter's own lips, the male villager unsure whether to be heartened or dejected, since Latura clearly possessed not a clue as to his name. But at least she had recognized him, and for Lattie that constituted victory enough.
Unfortunately, other rats already occupied the bench to either side of Latura, so Palter's handlers continued to bustle him back to the very last row - and here the scrawny woodlander found his breath leaving him, his stiffened body refusing to inhale again.
One of his escorts guffawed. "Yah, that's how ev'ryrat reacts seein' our Crackmaster fer th' first time!"
Before Palter, lurking in the shadowed recesses of the aft rowing galley, loomed the largest rat he had ever seen. Its head almost scraped the ceiling, and its chest and shoulders were easily twice the width of Palter's own meagre proportions, and then some. Muscles bulged through the crisscrossing torso straps that seemed to be its only garments, and the legs stood planted upon the festering deck like twin pedestals of unforgiving sinew. Across the eyes this terror sported a thin black mask lending the wicked, blocky features an almost ferrety aspect - not enough to properly hide the identity, but just enough to cast the wearer in a more sinister light. From the meaty right paw dangled a coiled lash, the whip loose in the grasp as if being weighed for use at any instant ...
And then, without warning or provocation, that whip snapped out, its tip cracking viciously right upon Palter's nose. He staggered back in pained alarm with a strangled cry, sure that a terrible welt must have been raised there, or that the delicate nasal skin had broken to pour blood down into his mouth and chin fur. But as he raised a paw to check, one of his minders roughly yanked it back down again. "Aw, don'tcher go an' worry yerself, y' liddle wastrel - that's how Cracky greets all 'is new rowers! Let's 'em know up front what they're in fer if they don't pull their weight. Ain't that right, Cracky?"
The hulking slavemaster, still grinning maliciously from his treatment of Palter, managed to glare at his offending crewmate at the same time. "Call me that agin, I'll break yer skull."
Introductions thus made, the two searats tied Palter to his oar in the last row, which he was apparently to share with only one other: a female rat of middle seasons who nevertheless looked more suited to the hard labors ahead than Palter was. "Well, that's th' last of 'em," one of the searats said. "Once we're well out t' sea, we'll decide which ones we'll be keepin', an' which we'll be lettin' loose ... "
Several of the nearby prisoners glanced up at this offpaw comment, the first faint flicker of hope they'd dared allow themselves in many days shining in their eyes. "Let loose?" a few whispered and murmured under their breath ... but their cause for optimism proved short-lived.
The second searat cast a dour gaze over the twoscore or so roped slaves. "By th' look o' this lot, we might be lucky if half of 'em make th' cut. Either way, I'll be gettin' the chains ready - for those who'll be stayin', an' fer those who'll be goin'!"
The sniggering pair exited up the front galley steps, leaving all the new captives to their resident taskmaster, who paced up and down the aisle with glowering menace, wordlessly grimacing at what he'd been given to work with.
When the Redfoam untied and pulled away from the jetty a short time later, catching the high tide to ease her passage out of the coastal shallows, the prisoners found scant consolation in the fact that their new waterborne prison got underway with sails alone. They all knew their real nightmare would come soon enough, even if they were for the moment spared the crack of the lash and backbreaking strain as the searat galleon bore them away to the heart of Tratton's Empire.
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Up on the wheeldeck of the Redfoam, Captain Trangle stood with his first mate Laverty, gazing not out to the open main beckoning them to where they truly wanted to be, but back toward shore, toward Salamandastron, and toward the Goodwill, still moored at the mountainside fortress's pier. They directed their attention that way not through suspicion that some treachery of Urthblood's might have the Badger Lord's forces lash out at them before they could ply safely beyond his reach - although this was a fear which still clawed at the heart of every searat captain who dared bring his vessel so close to their former enemy's lair, even with the Accord in place - but as a result of their King's latest edict, issued just earlier that season to all ships of the Royal Fleet.
"Y' reckern she's th' one, Cap'n sir?"
Trangle gazed down at the Imperial dispatch clutched in his paw. "Seems t' fit the profile we were told t' keep an eye out for. Level, barge-like top deck on a high-ridin' hull, no excess rigging, flat hatchways - aye, she's a prime candidate, a'right. Pity there wasn't a fleetrunner in port when we were; we coulda told 'em to spread word, get another galleon or frigate or even a dreadnought ready to intercept her."
An ambitious fire lit Laverty's eyes. "Reckon we could take 'er ourselves? T'would be great honor 'n' prestige in baggin' such a prize ... mebbe promotions ... "
Trangle shook his head. "Much as I might savor grabbin' that glory fer m'self, Lavs, it'd look too suspicious if we tarried just offshore o' Salam'dastron after departing with our slave load, sailin' in circles while we waited fer that trader mouse t' leave too. 'Member, Urthblood's gulls can range far out t' sea, an' they'll report back to that badger if we linger anywhere within a day's sail o' here. 'Sides which, we can't guess how much longer that vessel's gonna remain right where she is. Only just arrived yesterday - could be she'll not be budgin' fer many days yet. An' we've got our own patrol lanes t' cover, an' our own tribute t' collect."
"There's tribute, sir, an' then there's tribute. Deliverin' this could be worth twenty confiscated cargo lots."
"This's gotta be handled careful, Lavs, real careful. There's not only the Accord t' consider in general, but that mouse is a guest of Urthblood's now in 'is own home. Gotta be quick, clean, an' quiet - quiet most of all, so no land beast ever finds out. An' that means leavin' it to Uroza's spyrats. We'll just keep a sharp lookout fer the first fleetrunner that comes our way, hail 'em to us an' get word out that we found a promisin' vessel, an' hope it can all be coordinated 'fore she gets away."
The searat captain flashed a dangerous grin. "We might not get t' snare th' grand prize itself, but I'm bettin' there'll be perks aplenty t' bein' the first cap'n an' crew t' report we've found 'xactly the ship King Tratton's maskfaced tinkerer's been lookin' for!"